


Crystal Vision

by ScoutLover



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aramis Has One, Blow Jobs, Canon Era, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Glasses kink, Hand Jobs, It's all about the Athos Angst, M/M, Wartime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 21:47:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5471846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScoutLover/pseuds/ScoutLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos wears spectacles. Why didn’t Aramis know Athos wears spectacles?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crystal Vision

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by [these photos](http://scoutlover.tumblr.com/post/134868097996/unkindness313-tom-glasses-hair-by) of Tom Burke.  
> Takes place some time during S3 and the war. I’m fairly certain that, once the season airs, all this will be blown out of the water, so maybe consider it speculative fiction? Also, I have cribbed details from the actual Franco-Spanish War of 1635-1659 and sort of, um, bastardized them for this. Hey, the show writers do it, so why shouldn't I?  
> The title comes from the song “Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac. Because Stevie Nicks.  
> The Musketeers, sadly, aren't mine, though I've asked for them in my letter to Santa.  
> You can find me on [tumblr](http://scoutlover.tumblr.com/).

Athos sat hunched over in his chair, one elbow on the desk, his head cradled in his hand, piles of papers littering the desk and a map spread before him. Candles and lamps burned around him, keeping the dark of night at bay, but not even their light made the words and images on the map any more legible. Any less _blurry_. He lifted a hand to rub at his weary eyes, knowing even as he did so that it wouldn’t help.

 _You shouldn’t read at night, Olivier._ His governess’ voice, as crisp as ever, scolded him from years past. _You will ruin your eyes._

Of course, back then he’d only read at night because he didn’t want to put down whatever book had captivated him at the moment. Perhaps it had been Petrarch’s _L’Africa_ or one of des Escuteaux’s _amours_. But he’d read then at night simply because he’d run out of daylight and still couldn’t bear to stop.

Now, he read at night because he _had_ to, because there were maps and dispatches and orders, intelligence reports and requests – pleas – for supplies, lists of the injured and letters to be written to the families of the dead that simply couldn’t wait for morning.

_Look at your father. You see how he needs spectacles now? It is because he reads at night._

Irritating woman.

_Look at your father._

Still fighting her – he’d always fought her; he’d just never _won_ – he sighed and closed his aching eyes … and the image came unbidden. Unwanted.

_Look at your father._

Maddening woman.

But he couldn’t help it, couldn’t help _himself_. He tried, God knew he tried, to avoid thinking of his father when at all possible, too ashamed, even now, to face him with the wreck and ruin of a proud family name, a proud family _legacy_ , on his hands. Yet sometimes, as now, the man crept up on him and caught him unaware, and he found himself looking back on him with the same reverence and respect, the same worshipful awe, with which he’d looked up to him as a boy.

_Look at your father._

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and rubbed a thumb and forefinger over them, willing them to work for him. _The Spanish have invaded France, Papa,_ his mind whispered. They had swept down from Brussels and were ravaging Picardie. The forts at La Capelle, La Catalet, Corbie and Roye had fallen to them, and the French forces under Condé, de Soissons and, God help them, the Duc d’Orléans were scrambling just to contain them, much less defeat them.

The _Spanish_ were in _France_.

The very thought made his chest ache and his stomach clench. It was an affront, an insult, _sacrilege_ against the one thing he still held sacred. France, _his_ France, had been _violated_ , her towns sacked and her people killed, her fields pillaged and burned. Paris was in an uproar, people fleeing the city and jamming up the roads because it was feared that the Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand and his Habsburg allies were heading there and _might take the city_.

 _Paris_ in _Spanish_ hands. The very idea was _obscene_.

 _You are a son of France, and thus a servant of France._ His father’s voice, sober and heavy with purpose, imparting a sacred trust. _We have ever stood with France and for her King. We defend France with our honor and our blood. And you, Olivier, will do the same._

He rubbed at his eyes again. He was trying. Goddamn it, he was _trying_. The King, who’d moved the court to Blois to escape the Spanish threat, had “lent” his favorite regiment to his brother, the Duc d’Orléans, as a sign of his “faith” in Gaston’s loyalty and military prowess (and, almost certainly, as armed insurance of that loyalty). And Gaston, like a child seeking to test the durability of a new toy, had begun flinging the Musketeers at the enemy every chance he got, whether the opposing force was a company, a regiment or one of the feared Spanish _tercios_.

To Athos’ pride, his men were covering themselves in glory. To his horror, they were also covering themselves in blood. His regiment, the elite force Tréville had handed him with such confidence, such pride, was being, quite literally, _decimated_. Nor did it help that his appeals for supplies, for reinforcements, for _goddamned accurate intelligence that he could actually bloody use_ were routinely ignored. His men were fighting for France, _dying_ for France, and France couldn’t be bothered to come to their aid.

So he’d begun doing what he could himself. He’d actually forced himself to remember with which bankers in Paris he’d left his family’s money when he’d fled his home all those years ago and withdrawn a substantial portion. He’d purchased supplies for his men, then raised, armed and had his men train a small company of scouts, a “gift” to the Musketeers from a provincial nobleman no one had heard from in a decade.

The Comte de la Fère might have failed his family and his people, but at least he could still serve France. And the men he loved above all others in this life.

_Look at your father._

His father had rallied at once to Louis’ side when Marie de Medici had risen against him and tried to take his crown. He’d dutifully raised and equipped a militia and fought for his king, his eldest son at his side. It had been Olivier’s first taste of war, and the first time he’d seen his father as anything but the stern yet fair provincial comte who governed his people and his lands with such efficiency and care.

It was also the first time he’d seen his father wear his spectacles outside the privacy of his study. In a strategy meeting with other commanders, as they’d gathered around a map, his father had reached into a pocket, pulled out a small case and opened it, then slipped the bowed silver frames on over his nose.

 _Vanity is fine when only a man’s pride is at stake_ , he had said when he’d noticed Olivier’s surprise. _But now France is at stake, and vanity is nothing compared to that. How can I serve her if I cannot see?_

Athos sighed and opened his eyes, lifting his head and staring down at the map. It was no clearer now than before, no matter how far across the desk he pushed it or how far back he leaned.

_Look at your father._

Goddamned infuriating woman.

He sighed again, then reached into the pocket of the doublet hanging over the back of his chair, pulled out and opened the small case, and slipped the bowed silver frames on over his nose.

*****

Aramis left the small church and wandered across the village square, his head down, his shoulders slumping. Two more men had died this evening, and he’d spent the past few hours praying for their souls and arranging their funerals with the priest.

_So many Masses for so many dead. And so many of his comrades, his brothers, laid to rest in graves so far from their homes._

He sighed and lifted his head, looking around and trying to shake off his dark mood. They’d come across a company of Spanish soldiers sacking this village two days ago and had routed them in a vicious battle. Many of the residents had fled in advance of the raiders, leaving it all but deserted, and so Athos had taken it over and set up headquarters here, giving his men a chance to rest and the wounded a chance to be tended or to die in peace. Aramis didn’t even know what the village was called; he’d stopped trying to remember place names long ago. And one village in Picardie looked very like another–

He stopped and stared across the square, frowning at the small house – the mayor’s, if he remembered correctly – whose windows shone with light from within. The hour was late, and everyone else, save the men on watch, had long since given in to exhaustion and retired.

Except, of course, for Athos.

Aramis exhaled sharply and shook his head, irritation rising sharply within him. They’d been fighting almost constantly for a month now, both pitched battles and skirmishes, had been scrambling back and forth across the region in a desperate attempt to keep the Spanish from extending their hold on the area until the Comte de Sèvier finally brought his long-promised forces to help beat them back. They were all exhausted, all worn thin, most of them bearing wounds in various stages of healing, all badly in need of good food and sleep–

And Athos, damn him, as battle-frayed as anyone else, was still, stubbornly, _awake_. Aramis stared at the house, at the sheer amount of light showing in the windows, and could almost see Athos. The idiot would be at his desk, poring over maps, reports, orders and his precious lists (though Aramis had no idea why he needed _written_ lists when the clever bastard could pull any detail he needed from his own memory), his supper sitting cold and long forgotten on a tray somewhere (probably under another pile of papers). Of course, his working so long into the night wouldn’t be _quite_ so maddening if Aramis didn’t know that he would also defy his utter _hatred_ of mornings and drag his exhausted ass out of bed before the sun was even a hint of a blush in the sky to begin his day again.

Sometimes, God forgive him, Aramis missed the days when Athos would drink himself into a stupor. At least then he’d _slept_.

He stared at the house and its glowing windows a few moments longer, thought of his own waiting and too long neglected bed, and heaved another sigh. No. He’d never be able to rest knowing Athos was doing this to himself. Fortunately, over the years he’d developed quite the knack for dealing with and distracting the overly conscientious bastard. Calling a few of his favorite techniques to mind, he crossed the green to the house, wondering if Athos had any idea just how lucky he was to have so dedicated a soldier in his command.

Once at the door, he didn’t even bother to knock, merely thrust it open and strode through, closing it forcefully behind him. He swept through the small parlor and into the larger sitting room Athos had made his office–

And stopped short as Athos surged to his feet, raising and cocking a pistol. The man wore one of his black shirts, unlaced and open halfway down his chest, and his long hair was disheveled, as if he’d been running his hands through it, curling around his face and where it brushed his shoulders. Yet despite his apparent alarm at the sudden intrusion, the pistol in his right hand was steady and aimed squarely at Aramis’ chest.

It wasn’t the _pistol_ , though, that grabbed his attention. Even as Athos exhaled sharply and uncocked the weapon, dropping it onto his desk, Aramis continued to stare, his mouth open, his gaze riveted to the other man’s so familiar face … and the completely _unfamiliar_ silver spectacles perched delicately on his aristocratic nose.

Aramis stared, swallowed, stared harder. Athos was wearing spectacles. Why was Athos wearing spectacles?

Why in the hell hadn’t Aramis known that Athos wore _spectacles_?

*****

Athos held the latest dispatch from the Comte de Sèvier in his right hand and ran the forefinger of his left over the map between the location of the comte’s force as stated in the dispatch and his own, calculating time and distance in his mind, factoring in what his scouts had told him of road conditions in the region, what the weather was likely to do, and what he knew of de Sèvier. Which was, admittedly, not much.

Perhaps he should have spent all those years of palace duty paying more attention to individual noblemen, and less time silently despairing of the overall stupidity of his class–

The sudden and loud slamming of the house’s outer door abruptly shattered his thoughts. He let the dispatch fall from his fingers and drove his hand into a pile of papers for the pistol he always kept nearby, rising to his feet and raising and cocking the weapon all in one smooth motion. The moment the “intruder” entered the room and recognition hit him, however, he exhaled sharply and uncocked the pistol, dropping it onto the desk.

“Aramis,” he greeted, exasperation lacing his voice. “You might try announcing yourself next time, if only to save me the inconvenience of shooting you.”

But Aramis said nothing, just stood inside the doorway, staring, dark eyes wide, mouth hanging open.

“Aramis?” Athos called worriedly, trying to remember if the man had suffered a head wound recently. But, God, they _all_ had wounds of some kind or another, and it was getting difficult to keep them straight in his mind. “Aramis, has something happened?”

Aramis stepped closer, his face pulling into a frown, his gaze still intent on Athos. Moving to the desk, he lifted a finger to point at Athos’ face and asked softly, “Are those–?”

All at once, Athos remembered the spectacles and reached up to remove them. In a flash, though, Aramis’ hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, holding his arm in place. “Aramis–”

“You’re wearing spectacles,” Aramis breathed, seemingly fascinated. His fingers remained locked around Athos’ wrist.

Athos felt acutely self-conscious, and started to raise his other hand to remove them. But Aramis grabbed that wrist, too. Held firmly in the man’s strong hands, he swallowed his discomfort and lifted his chin, arching a brow. “Is there a reason for this intrusion?” he asked coolly, the comte’s precise tone replacing his earlier softer, more weary one.

“Why are you wearing spectacles?” Aramis asked softly, his voice tinged with wonder as his dark gaze traced the shape of them.

Athos huffed out a breath and rolled his eyes. “Why does _anyone_ wear them?” he asked irritably, still trying to free his wrists, and still to no avail. “I need them to help me see clearly.” He tugged against Aramis’ hold again. “Do you mind?”

“I do, as a matter of fact,” Aramis answered, smiling brightly. “If I release you, you’ll only take them off and hide them, and I rather like them. Why haven’t I seen you wearing them before?”

Athos exhaled sharply, resigning himself to this interrogation. God alone knew what would take Aramis’ fancy at any given moment, but when something did, the man would not be thwarted. Best to give in, answer his questions, and get it over with. “Because I only got them on my last trip to Amiens, when I had the _joy_ ,” his lips twisted disdainfully, “of conferring with Monsieur le Prince and Condé. Though I–” He winced and dropped his gaze from Aramis’ face, embarrassed by his weakness. “I have … needed them … for some time now,” he said softly.

Aramis made a small sound of understanding and released Athos’ wrists. “The headaches,” he said quietly.

Athos looked sharply back at him, frowning. “How did you know I have been suffering from headaches?”

Aramis sighed and shook his head, his dark eyes soft. “Athos,” he chided gently, “I have tended you through head wounds, fevers, countless mornings after long nights of drinking, and innumerable hours of grinding your teeth while at court. Believe me, I know when you have a headache almost as soon as you do.” He lifted a hand to brush a finger lightly over the silver frames. “Do these help?”

Athos smiled wryly. “Much to my dismay, they do.” He turned and waved a hand at the clutter of papers covering his desk. “I now have no excuse _not_ to read all that.”

Aramis snorted and set his hands on his hips, arching a dark brow and gazing knowingly at him. “Athos, please,” he scoffed. “You would read every word even without the spectacles. The headaches are proof of that.”

Athos turned back to him, frowning. “It is my duty–”

“And there’s that word,” Aramis muttered, shaking his head. He glanced at the desk. “How much of this must you do tonight?”

Athos frowned more deeply, not quite understanding the question. “All of it,” he answered in some confusion. “I have dispatches from Tréville and de Soissons, and reports I must send back to them–” He stepped past Aramis and began to pace about the office, mentally sorting through every page on the desk and its corresponding requirement of him. “We took more prisoners than we truly have the men to watch when we took this village from the Spanish,” he said softly, worried not only about the security of holding such a large group, but also the strain it would put upon their already thin food supplies. “We either need someone to take them off our hands or to reinforce us. We have our own injured who must be transported to Amiens, or who require that physicians be sent _here_. We need provisions, but the Spanish have stripped this land clean, and Gaston will not send supplies unless he knows the Spanish will not intercept them. So I must keep sending scouts further and further out and pray they return with good news. I still have no idea when de Sèvier and his force will arrive, or even _if_ he will arrive, though he assures me with every missive that he is ‘making all due haste.’” He uttered a sharp sound of disgust. “The man has a disturbing notion of _haste_ ,” he said bitterly, wondering what excuse the comte would offer next for his continued lack of progress. “I need him here now. This latest battle has left us under-manned and vulnerable. The Spanish are out there, _somewhere_ , and if they attack again, I am not certain–”

“Athos.” Aramis crossed the room and stepped in front of him, stopping his pacing, then reached out to cup a hand around the back of his neck, fingers stroking lightly. “Stop,” he ordered softly, dark eyes deep and warm. “Breathe.”

Athos exhaled unsteadily and leaned instinctively into Aramis, dropping his head to the man’s shoulder, his hands seeking a place at Aramis’ hips of their own accord. Aramis continued to stroke the back of his neck, the light, gentle touch of those fingers against his skin compelling him to calm. Even so, all the problems, all the responsibilities, contained in the pages on his desk whispered to him, insisting that he turn back to them. “Aramis,” he whispered, “I can’t–”

“You can,” Aramis said quietly, his other hand coming up to rub slow circles into Athos’ back. “There is nothing more you can do right now, you know that. These problems, sadly, will all still be with us in the morning.” His fingers worked their way from Athos’ neck into his hair, carding gently through the long strands. “You might be a brilliant man, Athos, but you will not win or lose the war for us from that desk tonight.”

“Perhaps not,” he breathed, “but I have–”

“If you say the word ‘duty,’ I’ll punch you so hard you’ll beg me to kick you.”

Athos lifted his head sharply, then smiled despite himself at having his own words, from so many years ago now, used against him. Aramis looked utterly unrepentant, dark eyes gleaming and handsome face wreathed in innocence, and Athos felt a sudden warmth blossom in his chest. “Aramis–”

“Tell me about these,” Aramis said simply, lifting a finger to tap lightly against the spectacles.

Again, Athos had forgotten he was wearing them, and he blushed and looked away, embarrassed by the reminder. “They are a sign that I am getting old,” he murmured, reaching up and removing them.

“Nonsense,” Aramis snorted, pressing a warm palm against Athos’ cheek and turning his face back to him. Despite his smile, though, a glimmer of worry shone in his eyes. “They are, though, a sign that you drive yourself too hard.” He stroked his thumb lightly over a cheekbone and down Athos’ jaw. “You don’t eat, you don’t sleep,” he said softly, sadly. “The men on watch talk of you roaming our encampments in the middle of the night, and I know for a fact you spend too many hours sitting by the wounded and the dead. The men love you fiercely for your devotion to them, but they are worried about you.”

Athos pulled himself out of Aramis’ hands and turned away, bowing his head and resuming his pacing. “Someone has to look after them,” he said, a note of anger threading through the weariness in his voice. “Condé forgets about us, Gaston remembers us too often, and de Soissons apparently thinks we can produce our own powder and feed a regiment from a land stripped bare. Tréville does what he can, but he has all the armies of France to worry about and cannot show us favoritism–”

“And so you will do what no one else can or will,” Aramis said, exasperation sharpening his voice. “You, _alone_ , will protect us, even at the cost of your own health.”

Athos stiffened and raised his head, turning back to Aramis and scowling at him. “I am Captain of the King’s Musketeers,” he said sharply, the comte’s cold, precise inflections again taking over. “They are _my_ men, _my_ responsibility, and I have sworn on my _honor_ to give them all that I have in me–”

“You’ve already given them blood!” Aramis snapped, his hands again going to his hips, his dark eyes flashing. “You’ve given them your days, your nights, your care, your tears, and now your eyesight.” Athos flinched at that and curled his fingers around the spectacles, but Aramis wasn’t finished. “And let us not forget your _fortune_. No one has heard from the Comte de la Fère in _years_ , everyone had forgotten such a man _existed_ , yet in the past few months he has suddenly resurrected himself and become the patron of the Musketeers.” He stepped closer, his expression a mixture of anger and worry. “Just how much more can you _give_ , Athos?”

“ _Everything!_ ” he snarled. “All that I have! This regiment, these men, _saved_ me, Aramis! When my world was shattered, when everything I had known and loved had turned to betrayal and _blood_ , when I had nothing left but the oblivion found in the bottle and a wish to _die_ , these men _saved_ me!” He turned away and stalked to a window, gazing through it. He could see nothing in the darkness beyond, but didn’t need to. He knew they were there, and that was, as it had ever been, enough. “They took me in,” he said softly, “gave me purpose, gave me _brotherhood_ , and now they have given me their loyalty and their trust.” He raised a hand and pressed it to the glass, mindful of every man out there in the dark. “How can I not give them everything I have in return for that?”

Aramis moved to stand just behind him, pressing his chest into Athos’ back. “And when you have exhausted yourself, have poured yourself out completely,” he asked, his warm breath ghosting against Athos’ neck, “when you have ruined your health or, worse, _died_ for them, who will take care of them then?”

He closed his eyes and bowed his head against the thick glass. “Aramis–”

“And what will d’Artagnan do without you,” Aramis persisted, resting his chin on Athos’ shoulder, “without the man who is both brother and father to him? What will Porthos do without the only nobleman in all of France who recognizes and treasures _his_ nobility? And what will _I_ do,” he wound an arm about Athos’ waist, “without the man who, for once in his life, forgot his precious duty and saved me from the traitor’s death I deserved?”

Athos closed his eyes tightly and slid a hand down to cover the one resting against his stomach. “I could never have let you die,” he whispered harshly, the thought of it even now threatening to break him. “I lost a brother once. To do so again–” He squeezed Aramis’ fingers tightly. “I could not have borne it.”

“You have taken care of all of us for so long,” Aramis breathed, turning his face into Athos’ neck and whispering against the tender flesh there. “Will you not, for just this one night, let me take care of you?”

“De Sèvier–”

“Isn’t coming, and we both know it,” Aramis said baldly, putting the ugly truth into words. “And even if he were, he wouldn’t be coming tonight. But, with any luck,” he flicked his tongue against Athos’ earlobe, “ _you_ will be.”

“Aramis!” Athos hissed sharply, trying desperately not to feel the thrill of heat shooting through him at Aramis’ words. And failing utterly. “I have–”

“Punch you,” he bit sharply at the tender flesh just beneath Athos’ ear, “until you beg me,” he laved his tongue against the bite, “to kick you.” He pressed a tender kiss to Athos’ neck.

Athos exhaled sharply, unsteadily, and shuddered, relaxing helplessly back into Aramis, his eyes closing. He knew it was wrong, knew he had duties that couldn’t wait, responsibilities to his men that took precedence over any needs of his own–

And none of that mattered. Not with Aramis’ warmth against him, his arms wrapped around him, that talented mouth and clever tongue nuzzling so insistently at him. Every stroke of that tongue, every nip of those teeth or press of those lips, set lightning striking at his nerves and heat racing through his blood. One of Aramis’ hands tugged his shirt out of his breeches and then slipped beneath, fingers stroking against his stomach and wringing another shudder, another gasp, from him. Leaning heavier still against the man, trembling now in every part of himself, he drove his own hands back in search of Aramis’ hips and dug long, strong fingers into him, grounding himself in Aramis’ strength and solidness.

“Please!” he whispered helplessly, breathlessly. His cock was twitching, straining, but Aramis’ hands stubbornly ignored it, one resting at his hip, the other still lightly stroking his stomach. “I–”

“What, Athos?” Aramis breathed, nuzzling through his hair and down the column of his neck, nipping sharply with his teeth as he went, then dropping a soft, wet kiss against every bite. “Tell me what you want. What you need.”

Athos groaned. Goddamn it, he’d never been good at that, at giving voice to his desires, despite all the years of Aramis’ singular “tutelage.” He only knew that when he was falling apart, he needed Aramis to put him back together, and when he was strung too tightly, to take him apart.

“You,” he finally managed, hooking his fingers into the waistband of Aramis’ breeches and holding on for dear life. “Just … _you_.”

“Ah, _cher_ ,” Aramis breathed, turning Athos to face him and smiling softly, “you already have me.” He pulled Athos close and pressed their lips together in a sweet, slow kiss. “You always will.”

Athos gasped and shivered and clutched at him again, only to have Aramis chuckle and push his right hand away, opening his fingers. “Careful with these,” he said, taking the spectacles from Athos and holding them gingerly. “Don’t want to break them.” He reached up and set them back on Athos’ nose, smiling delightedly. “I like the look of them on you.”

Athos felt a sudden flash of fear for his eyewear, knowing Aramis’ penchant for using … _accessories_. “You will not do anything untoward with these,” he commanded primly, arching a brow. “The lenses came from Amiens, but the frames,” he swallowed and felt a blush rising in his cheeks, “were my father’s.”

Aramis went still at that, his eyes widening, a look of wonder passing over his face. He reached up to touch the frames again. “Your father’s?” he breathed, surprise in his voice.

Athos could understand the reaction. Even now, he spoke so rarely of his family that any mention of them was bound to startle. And part of him regretted that. His parents had been good, strong, and truly _decent_ people, deserving of a far better memorial than a son’s silence. But it was still so difficult for him to think back _before_ Anne and Thomas and the death and ruin that had befallen them all to the time when his world had still been whole and bright and _clean_.

Perhaps he owed it to them – and to himself – to try.

“I brought them with me when I … left … la Fère,” he said softly, bowing his head, uncomfortably aware of Aramis’ unwavering gaze upon him. “I brought only a few things with me, things I … couldn’t bear to leave behind. A pair of Th– Thomas’,” he wrapped his arms tightly around himself as he stumbled, even now, over the name, “favorite riding gloves, my mother’s ring, rosary, and prayer book, and my father’s sword, crucifix, and … these.” He frowned slightly, still confused by his choice. “I don’t know why, out of all his belongings, I decided upon his spectacles,” he mused. “But I suppose I wasn’t … thinking clearly–” He gave a short, mirthless chuckle. “Hell, I was so drunk I _couldn’t_ think!”

“Did he wear them often?” Aramis asked quietly, softening his stance as if afraid of shattering this rare moment of openness.

Athos thought back, and nodded slowly. “He did. Oh, not at first. But as he grew older–” All of his memories of his father in his later years were of the man – stern, serious, but with an innate kindness that revealed itself in countless small ways – peering out at the world through glass lenses set in these frames.

“That’s why you chose them, then,” Aramis told him, as certain as Athos was confused. “They were not just his, but a _part_ of him. An important and _intimate_ part that you obviously wished to keep with you. And now,” he smiled and reached up to brush a finger against the frames again, “they are part of you as well.”

“‘A man must see clearly, both himself and his world, at all times,’” Athos said softly, smiling crookedly as Aramis frowned. “He used to say that.” He winced and bowed his head. “I have … not always lived up to it.”

Aramis moved closer and dropped his hand to Athos’ chest, just over his heart. “You’re doing better, though,” he breathed. “ _So much_ better.”

Athos smiled crookedly and reached out, brushing a stray lock of dark hair out of Aramis’ face. “Your judgment might be somewhat suspect where I am concerned,” he teased softly.

Aramis gasped as if mortally offended and drew himself up to his full height, lifting his chin and laying a hand to his heart. “I will have you know that my judgment is _impeccable_ in _all_ matters,” he declared airily. “It’s why you keep me around.”

Ahos’ smile turned impossibly fond. “Is it?” He trailed his fingers down the man’s strong, sculpted jaw, tugging lightly at his beard. “I’ve always wondered at the reason.”

“You’re a cruel man, Athos,” Aramis breathed, reaching out and toying idly with the untied laces of Athos’ shirt. He wound the laces about his fingers and tugged, pulling Athos to him. He moved closer and brushed his lips against Athos’, licking lightly against the scar twisting through the top one. “You wound me.”

Athos’ breath caught in his throat, and one hand came up to clutch at Aramis’ shoulder, fingers knotting in linen and the leather of his braces. “It’s a tempting thought,” he whispered against Aramis’ mouth, slipping his other arm about the man’s waist to pull him closer still and capturing those teasing lips with his own in a slow, deep kiss.

Aramis groaned and shivered and slipped his hands beneath Athos’ shirt, long, deft fingers stroking over skin and through the hair on his chest, then finding and brushing over a taut nipple. Athos shuddered and gasped into his mouth and Aramis intensified his sweet assault, pinching the nipple and brushing his crotch against Athos’.

Every nerve in Athos’ body sparked hotly and his mind whited out as Aramis rocked into his hardness. He couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but clutch at Aramis and shake as his knees threatened to buckle beneath him. His cock throbbed with a hunger he could no longer deny, and he wanted, needed, nothing more than to sink into the man holding him and lose all his cares in him.

“Please,” he whispered desperately. “Help me!”

“I will,” Aramis assured him, “I promise.” He traced the shape of Athos’ lips with his tongue. “It is why I am here.”

“You are here to torment me into madness!” Athos gasped.

Aramis chuckled, then nipped sharply at the corner of his mouth. “What can I say, it is a gift.” He pulled away, smiling at the choked whimper of protest that escaped Athos. “Be patient, _cher_ ,” he breathed, trailing long fingers down Athos’ chest. “All things in their time and place. First,” he glanced around, “let us extinguish some of these candles. Unless you wish yet another house to burn down around you. And then we shall retire upstairs.” He winked. “Oddly enough, I have never made love in a mayor’s bed.” He gave a bright, delighted smile. “Why, one could say I am a virgin!”

Athos gave a surprised laugh, which won him a glare from Aramis. The glare faded when he leaned forward and kissed him.

“Dear God,” he murmured against Aramis’ mouth, “the things I do for peace in the ranks!”

*****

They made their way up the stairs, having made certain that the front door was bolted and that they would be left in peace. The stairs were narrow, forcing them close together, yet neither minded. Once in the small bedroom, they divested themselves quickly of their weapons, and Athos lit a few candles for light. Then a sharp sound of displeasure from Aramis had him turning to face the man and wondering what he’d done now.

Aramis was standing in the middle of the room and staring fixedly at the neatly made and seemingly untouched bed. “And exactly how long has it been,” he asked in a low, tight voice, “since you have slept? Or have you managed to engage a housekeeper? Because I know you are incapable of making a bed to look like _that_.”

Athos stood where he was and blinked, his mind unable to supply an answer. Or, more precisely, an answer that would satisfy Aramis.

And that was answer enough.

“Three days,” Aramis said, turning slowly to face him. “We’ve been here _three days_. How have you not _slept in this bed_ in all that time?”

Athos swallowed and licked his lips slowly, fairly certain any mention of a bedroll on the floor downstairs – or, worse, falling asleep in his chair slumped over the desk – wouldn’t be well received. He wisely said nothing.

But he and Aramis had rarely needed words between them, and Aramis seemed to read the answer in his face. He exhaled sharply and swore foully in Spanish, then stalked over to Athos and grabbed him by his shoulders, jerking him to him.

“ _Idiota!_ ” he growled, crushing his mouth to Athos’ in a fierce, bruising kiss.

Athos shuddered and drove his hands into Aramis’ shirt, clutching tightly as the man’s mouth devoured his own. “I–”

“Be quiet!” Aramis ordered, attacking Athos with lips, tongue and teeth, strong swordsman’s fingers raking down his back. “I’m _furious_ at you!” he rasped between bites and kisses, once more rocking his groin into Athos’ aching hardness and wringing a harsh, breathless cry from him. “I’m trying to decide how to punish you!”

Athos’ mind abruptly lost the ability to function at that, simply slipping into a white haze. _Punish …_ When he came back to himself, Aramis had somehow stripped him of his spectacles and shirt and was pushing him back to the bed. Once there, he simply dropped helplessly down upon it, thoughts still sputtering uselessly as Aramis knelt before him and impatiently tugged off his boots. The room – suddenly too close, too warm, and bathed in flickering candlelight – was swimming about him, Aramis’ litany of Spanish curses rose and fell in waves that lapped against his ears, and his own breathing was too fast and shallow. All the while, his need thundered through him with the force of a summer storm, overheating his flesh and his blood. Getting lost in the dizzying rush of sensations, feeling dangerously untethered from his body, he reached down desperately and buried a hand in Aramis’ hair, again needing to ground himself in the other man.

Aramis looked up sharply at that, and seemed to read … something … in his face. He let the boot he held fall to the floor and straightened on his knees, moving closer still to Athos and reaching up, cupping one hand to his jaw and pressing the other to his chest, above his racing heart.

“Ssh, breathe,” he urged softly, just holding his hands to Athos and letting him feel his warmth and nearness. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean– I just want you to take care of yourself.”

Athos stared down into Aramis’ eyes, so deep and dark and warm, and let those eyes and those hands settle and calm him and bring him back to himself. Only when he could breathe again without feeling as if the effort would tear his chest open did he nod and manage a faint smile.

“Perhaps I … should listen to you more often,” he rasped at last.

Aramis smiled brilliantly and leaned forward to kiss him. “I’ve been telling you that for years, _querido_ ,” he breathed against Athos’ lips. “Someday you will come to accept what a font of wisdom I am.”

“Perhaps,” he sighed, slipping his hands to Aramis’ shoulders and letting his head fall back as the man kissed his way down his throat. “But tonight I … think I will be content … merely to let you care for me.” He moaned and arched as Aramis found the notch in his collarbone and sucked hungrily at it. “I fear I … have not done a good job of it myself lately.”

Aramis swept his mouth up to the pulse throbbing frantically in Athos’ throat and pressed a tender kiss to it, the scratch of his beard against Athos’ over-sensitized flesh a delicious contrast to the softness of his mouth. “Then let me show you how it is properly done.”

He rose and flowed into Athos, pressing into him and bearing him back against the bed, his mouth again seeking and claiming Athos’ lips as his hands trailed over and down Athos’ shoulders, chest, stomach and hips, stroking and caressing. Athos moaned and shivered beneath Aramis’ sensual assault, fire leaping along his every nerve and his entire body quaking and quivering for relief. Those hands – so sure, so skilled, yet so tenderly worshipful – wandered down to his hips and danced feather-light against his hard and aching cock, and he bucked helplessly against them, a harsh, wordless cry of raw _need_ tearing from him.

“I think, perhaps,” Aramis breathed, his own voice thick and far from steady, “it is time we saw to this.”

“W– wait!” Athos gasped, knotting his fingers in Aramis’ shirt and trying desperately to understand what his own brain was trying to tell him. Aramis went still in his grasp, and Athos’ fingers latched onto the man’s leather braces. Then, suddenly, it hit him.

_Shirt. Braces._

“Undress for me!” he rasped, unconsciously making the words a command. “I want to feel you against me.”

Aramis beamed a delighted smile at him and bent to drop a quick kiss against his lips. “I live to obey!” he teased, then rolled off Athos and landed catlike on his feet.

Athos only barely swallowed his whimper of abandonment as Aramis’ weight left him. Unable to help himself, so desperately, _painfully_ , in need, he slid his own hand down toward the aching bulge in his breeches, only to have it slapped away.

“That’s mine,” Aramis warned, pinning his wrist to the bed with a firm hand. “I don’t like sharing my toys.”

“Then _hurry_ , damn you!” Athos snarled, rolling his hips as the ache throbbed harder.

Aramis chuckled and kissed him again, then released his hand. Years of practice in forbidden bedrooms across Paris stood him in good stead, however, and he stripped quickly out of his clothes. Leaving them in an untidy pile in the floor, he climbed once more atop Athos, straddling his thighs, and dropped his gaze to Athos’ crotch, licking his lips hungrily.

“Now,” he breathed, his low, throaty rasp sending a current of liquid heat straight to Athos’ cock, “let’s see what you have for me here.”

Athos cried out harshly and bucked again as Aramis began working at his breeches, those nimble, clever fingers making quick, if agonizing, work of the buttons there. Breath hissed through his teeth as Aramis began sliding the breeches down, finally freeing his thick, straining cock from the constraint of close-fitting leather.

“There we are,” Aramis breathed, sliding down Athos’ body and bowing his head over the tenting in his braes, pressing his mouth to the wetness of pre-cum seeping into the linen. “Time to come out and play.”

“Aramis!” he groaned, arching into that mouth and twisting his fingers into the bedding beneath him.

“Hush,” Aramis murmured, unlacing the braes and tugging them down past Athos’ hips. “I’m working here. You wouldn’t want to disrupt my concentration, would you?”

Athos thought – when he was capable of thought at all – that Aramis’ concentration, always formidable when properly focused, might just be the death of him. One of Aramis’ hands was at his hip, holding him still, the other closing possessively about his balls, cupping, squeezing, rolling the heavy sacs between those miraculous, tormenting fingers. Athos drove his head back into the pillow and his crotch into Aramis, his hands flailing for and clutching at any part of the man they could reach. Then Aramis’ mouth – _sweet Christ, that mouth!_ – was at his cock, that tongue licking around his base and dragging along his length, and once again the captain of the King’s Musketeers lost all capacity for thought.

He was lost, awash in a churning sea and buffeted by howling winds, tossed helplessly in a storm that had its origin in his own body. Aramis lapped at the pre-cum leaking from his cock, each movement of that tongue another lightning strike, and all at once the man suddenly gripped his hips and took him whole into his mouth.

Athos cried out and arched wildly, digging his fingers into Aramis’ shoulders and gripping for dear life as that mouth threatened to shatter his sanity. Words – curses, a prayer, a plea – poured senselessly from his lips as Aramis licked and sucked at him, as teeth, tongue and lips worked together in a perfect, powerful rhythm. Sweat poured from Athos, tremors raced through every muscle in his body, and his whole world shrunk to that glorious mouth. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t think, could do nothing but _feel_ as Aramis sought to suck his soul out through his cock.

And all at once it was too much. Tremors gave way to quakes, then to a powerful boiling at the base of his spine. He fought desperately to hold on, but it was no use against Aramis’ assault. A lifetime of rigid, iron control _shattered_ and he came in a furious convulsion of heat and light, clinging to Aramis and loosing a harsh, ragged cry as his release slammed through him.

Aramis drank until he had nothing left to offer, lapped away the last few, precious drops, then released his wilting cock and slid up his body, capturing Athos’ mouth with his own in a slow, deep, hungry kiss. Athos tasted himself on Aramis’ lips and tongue, dove deeper still into that mouth and wound an arm about Aramis’ waist, pulling him closer. And a soft, broken chuckle escaped him as he felt the weight and hardness of Aramis’ erection pressing insistently into him.

“Now who needs care?” he rasped, sliding his free hand between them and wrapping his fingers around Aramis’ length.

Aramis gasped and shuddered, then tore his mouth from Athos’ and buried his face in his throat. “Tonight is about you,” he whispered. “I shall–”

“You shall be quiet,” Athos ordered, shifting Aramis just enough in his arms to get a better grip on his cock, “and let me see to the needs of one of my men.”

“Arrogant, imperious bast– _Oh!_ ” Aramis yelped, shuddering again as Athos went to work.

Years of practice with the sword, of honing skills, strength, and the agility of fingers and wrist, came to the fore now as Athos bent his formidable concentration and care to Aramis’ cock. He stroked and squeezed, dragged calluses over sensitive skin and weeping tip, and, pouring every bit of his love for the man through his wrist and fingers, said all with them he could never manage to put into words.

Aramis was writhing and panting against him, clutching at and clinging to him, thrusting helplessly, frantically into his hand. He tightened his grip, intensified his rhythm, pressed kisses into any part of Aramis he could reach and whispered filthy words to him, and felt a sharp thrill of pleasure and pride as Aramis came with a sharp cry and erupted over them both, the man’s entire body shaking with the force of his release.

“Mother of God!” Aramis whispered weakly, slumping into Athos’ arms. “Is that part of a nobleman’s education?”

Athos chuckled and pressed another kiss to Aramis’ sweaty curls. “I learned that from some disreputable barracks rat,” he teased. “As nobility, we are taught only the duty of sex, and never the joy.”

“Oh, that is _tragic_ ,” Aramis lamented, as if the very notion wounded him. “Sex should always be a joy, and never merely _duty_.” He tipped his head and dropped a kiss against Athos’ breast, just over his heart. “You should have had a better tutor.”

Athos smiled contentedly and let his eyes fall closed, lethargy sweeping through him. “I did,” he breathed, sinking long fingers into Aramis’ hair. “Eventually.”

He could _feel_ Aramis preening. “We disreputable barracks rats have our uses,” he beamed.

Athos chuckled again. “I suppose you do, at that.”

Aramis was silent for long moments, then shifted in Athos’ arms. Athos opened his eyes to see Aramis frowning almost worriedly at him. “What?”

Aramis’ frown deepened and he lifted a hand to brush Athos’ hair back from his face. “You speak so little about it,” he breathed. “Did you … enjoy your childhood? I cannot bear to think of you as having been unhappy.”

Athos tensed instinctively, his mind again struggling to separate _the ruin_ from _before_. But they _were_ different, he _knew_ it, and forced himself to relax. And to remember. “I did,” he breathed at last. And to his very great surprise, he could look back on _those_ days, at least, without hurting. It was an entirely unexpected gift. “I hunted, swam, fished, even climbed trees.” His lips twitched in a smile. “And fell out of them. I broke my arm once, and had to endure a lecture from my father about terrifying my poor mother. But, yes,” he breathed softly, “I was happy. I learned the duties of a comte and the responsibilities of a gentleman from my father, and my prayers, a love of poetry and my obligations to the poor from my mother.”

Aramis nodded slightly, still gazing at him, and for a moment Athos felt a cold dread that he might ask about something, _someone_ , else.

_Thomas._

But he didn’t. And, with a twinge of guilt, Athos realized he _wouldn’t_. Aramis might be curious, but he wasn’t cruel. He would wait patiently for the day that Athos could talk about his brother himself.

Aramis relaxed against him again, pillowing his head on his chest and draping an arm loosely over his stomach. “I’m glad you were happy,” he sighed. “And I’m glad you can _remember_ being happy. You should have more to look back upon than pain.”

“I am … trying,” Athos said, knowing he’d come a long way but still had far to go. “It has taken so many years, but I am learning to see it all more clearly.” He turned his head to smile down at the man in his arms. “Perhaps, as with my eyesight, I simply needed the proper lens to bring it into focus.”

“Ah, yes, the _lenses_.” Aramis suddenly heaved himself halfway up and stretched out over Athos, reaching for the small table beside the bed. Finding what he sought, he pulled back and, with a flourish of his hand, delicately placed the silver frames over Athos’ nose. “Now,” he breathed, an indecent smile curving about his mouth as he draped himself once more over Athos’ body, “let us discuss all the ways we might truly _appreciate_ your spectacles …”

_The End_


End file.
